


Handprints

by vaultboii



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, prompt: soulmates + memory loss + first meeting, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: In the middle of a war a Guardian did not have time to worry about the glowing palms or fingerprints that lined their body. Zavala never has.Then, he meets Cayde.





	Handprints

**Author's Note:**

> request by anon! thanks for this my dude I enjoyed writing rarepairs.

Zavala does not worry about the marks.

On Awoken they glimmer different shades. He does not remember his family, or how theirs had looked, but in the camp he runs by one of his female brethren, a green handprint dimly glowing under the sway of bleached hair. Most the handprints match the Awoken’s eyes; some do not, mismatched little prints that act as birthmarks. Personality traits. 

He knows he has six. Six for people he does not know, five for soldiers like him stuck in the ruins of war. He finds three on his shoulders, and one upon his left hand -- and one, more intimately, pressed against the close of his thigh right where his armour seams away. 

(He worries about that one sometimes.)

The last one is grey. The colour signifies their death. On his chest the fingerprints are faded and worn, and the shade itself is barely distinguishable from his blue skin -- but it is there. Zavala doesn’t remember the owner of the mark and probably never will, but sometimes he traces over his kneecap and feels laughter in his mind, a light titter that is not his. Melancholy floods him. He wishes he could remember them. They had a beautiful laugh.

But, in the middle of a war a Guardian did not have time to worry about the glowing palms or fingerprints that lined their body. Too busy was a battlefield for those thoughts or rumours, no matter how they intrigued him. The time was for the fight, and the fight was what mattered the most. 

Yet sometimes, when his Ghost watches quietly, he pulls his glove off and eyes the white mark over his fingertips. Sometimes taking his lower armour off he brushes the thigh mark and flushes, stoic wavering. Sometimes, he touches his shoulders gently and muses what accidental clap on the shoulder would change everything.

He wishes he could meet the souls behind the marks. Then again, and he thinks this bitterly, perhaps he won’t survive the war before that. 

* * *

He stays alive. One mark fades to grey. 

He ignores it. 

* * *

The Exo cheers, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Amongst the slain corpses of Vandals, Zavala does nothing more than freeze. The words are jokingly familiar-- yet he cannot remember the exo behind their friendly, almost  _ acquainted  _ tone. A friend before, perhaps? He strains to recollect as he straightens from the crater he left in the ground. 

“And I thought I’d have to give it my  _ all _ ,” the Exo says and slides to a stop in front of him. The robot’s taking much care to avoid the puddles of guck left where he had punched the ground with Havoc, Zavala notices with faint amusement. “Saved me the hassle. Titans with the last minutes cues, huh?”

No, he cannot remember this Hunter. He wipes his hands clean of Vandal guck. “It is no problem,” he says. “Are the citizens --”

“Do you doubt my competence as a  _ Hunter _ ,” the Exo interrupts with a huff. The tone drips so much in bitterness that Zavala almost trips over his words in stunned silence. Seeing no more than shock, a smirk fills the Exo’s face and he points, enthused, to Zavala’s dumbstruck face. “Ha, still got it. Nah, few knicks and bruises but I am  _ magnificent _ . All kicking and breathing, ‘cept that one.” He thumbs behind him rapidly.

Zavala, against his better judgement, looks.

“Oh, I can’t believe that worked!” The Hunter rubs his hands together gleefully and before Zavala can make a comment about  _ this is not the time for jokes _ , the Exo does something with his hand. It’s a twitch of wave, almost as if the Exo is embarrassed of his citizen crowd. “They’re lost, by the way. I was trying to lead them to safety -- but ain’t these guys  _ everywhere _ . Say, would you know where the, hmm, nearest secure station is?”

Zavala sighs, and strides purposely to help the civilians. Only now he’s noticed most of them look terrified, some bracing that away for annoyance. Most are clutching useless weapons for a last resort. He admires that bravery in each of them. “It is alright,” he says.

“That’s what I’ve been telling them!” The Exo dashes up, zig-zagging between corpses. “Everything’s fine. All small-fries, anyways. Chin up, little ones.”

“If you continue down this way you will end in dangerous territory. The Guardians are fighting those off as we speak.” He points to himself. “I am Zavala. I will guide you to safety.”

Which soothes half the panicked looks. 

The Exo, of course, begins to speak again. “I’m Cayde. Six. Cayde of the Sixers.” Ignoring the rambling, Zavala murmurs to the civilians --  _ pass the central gate, there is a man standing there, orange, he will help.  _ Most begin to dash down the street. The annoyed one shoots one more glare to Cayde and is off. The Exo only bows in acceptance, as if thanking him and continues talking to him. “Hey, so turns out I was leading them the wrong way. The streets are so  _ confusing  _ in here.”

His prattle is annoyingly  _ calming _ . Zavala turns to Cayde and narrows his eyes. “Do I know you?”

“A lot of people know me.” Disbelief must’ve flicked over his face, for Cayde-6 snorts, and holstered his pistol. “I don’t think so. Not a lot of Awoken care for,” and the Exo makes a gesture to all of him. “That’s the thing though, you get resurrected and ka-blam, shot memories. Sundance, you remember Baldy here?”

Sundance turns out to be the Exo’s ghost. A voice echoes around the Exo -- _no_ \-- and falls silent. She sounds exasperated.

“See?” Cayde-6 ends brightly.

“Ah,” he says with as much dignity as he could muster. Listen to the Exo talk feels like listening to three conversations at once —loud, noises hazing together. The entire effect is something amplified by his spiked adrenaline and Zavala forces himself to try and keep his attention steady. 

His eyes must be wild.

Not that the Hunter’s optics aren’t different. Right now the edges of cold blue are looking thoughtfully off into the distance behind him, glinting quietly. His pinkie finger is twitching towards his holster.

“Say, I think I see some,” Cayde-6 says. “I’ll be right back.”

Which is not what Zavala would like the Hunter to do. A single Guardian, no matter how quick or deadly, never stood a chance against thousands of hordes of Vandals. He reaches forth and takes the Exo by the shoulder. “No,” he says sternly. “We stick together as one.”

Cayde-6 freezes. Beneath his palm the Exo’s shoulder almost slowly, disbelievingly stiffens. A hiss; steam trails from the edges of the mech’s mouth, trails up to the sky softly.

“Ah,” Cayde says. 

Zavala does not let go of the Exo’s shoulder. The tone of the Guardian has suddenly grown low, and he knows the sound indicates hostility. Perhaps even wrath. Both ways he readies himself for a snap of the vocalizer, a crack of the fist. It will come, eventually.

The boot scuffs. Cayde snaps around. Zavala steps back and raises a block, ready to catch the fist surely aiming for his face.

For once, he’s wrong. 

Past his fist, Cayde-6 leans in close, optics fuming and fierce. “Been looking for you a long time,” the drawl says almost quietly and cradles the handprint right over Zavala’s hip.

It was worse than fire. Heat spread down his side -- flickering streams of light sinking right from soft exo palm into his thigh, burning all the way to his throat. He cannot speak, cannot bear to  _ think.  _ It’s painful. It’s agonizing.

He needs more.

He sets his hand back down on the exo’s shoulder. Cayde’s optics glow even brighter again, and something hisses -- that quirked smile turns wicked. Zavala does not care. His thoughts echo as he breathes -- long, loud. Is this what it feels like? To find a soulmate? It hurts. Why does it hurt so  _ much? _

“You,” he mouths. Tries to breathe, tries to take the exo’s hand off his thigh. Fails, of course.

Cayde-6 stifles a chuckle and it’s low, almost taunting as the Exo grips the small, clothed area of his thigh in fondness. “I suppose my body  _ does  _ know you,” the exo quips.

The voice draws heat in that pain. Frustration arises, unbidden, curling in his chest as if someone had drew it from him. Zavala curls his other hand, nearly leans forward for the other’s neck. He needs closure. He needs to feel him. He needs to know this isn’t a memory.

A building shatters in the distance. 

The moment is lost. Cayde’s hand snatches back as if burned; Zavala nearly steps forward but stops himself. He cannot do this. They are in battle. This is a war. There is  _ no  _ time for this nonsense, this new...development. There are lives to save and people to protect and --

Cayde-6. Cayde-6. Now there is Cayde-6.

“Alrighty. Mhm. Back to work then,” the exo says simply. He’s stumbling over words too, even as he turns to leave. “Alright. Oh, yeah uh -- later. Bar. Me and you. We have  _ so _ much to talk about.” 

“Wait.” The words come parched. Zavala tries to find composure as Cayde looks back. He should not have looked in the exo’s optics. They glow with longing and need, as if the exo wants to strip him raw and just drink him in, wants to hold his hand and just listen to the day go by. The Titan struggles for words and finds a small sentence. “Be careful.”

Cayde-6’s optics gleam. “No promises Baldy,” the exo snorts, tugs hood up and dashes into the next building.

* * *

They survive.

Later, at the bar he stands there, bemused and stained in grime and guck and looking so out of place in the hordes of Hunters. But the two of them are still alive. That’s what matters. Knowing this he can bear gazes and suspicious squints that increase when he sits down. He knows they’ll fade away eventually. He’s just a Titan, after all.

He finds his left hand is tracing the thigh handprint. It’s not grey. 

“Man you’re punctual,” drawls someone behind him. Cayde-6 slides into the booth and taps one finger against his nose. Gazes increase tenfold. “So. Zavala, was it?” One hand creeps beneath the booth, right onto his thigh. It stays there. Oh,  _ Lord.  _ “I can’t believe I nagged myself a  _ Titan _ .”

Zavala puts both hands on his face and groans. 

In his skin the Light shimmers, amused. 


End file.
